It's true! Trudy's now on Facebook! Come and visit and tell me what you like!

Smooch!

Trudy

Tags: Trudy Doyle

Hits: 567 | Read more...

At a whole other joint, dahlings, my own little hide-out, a home away from home. Why don't you stop in and say hello? Sassy commentary! Exclusive content! Just click www.trudydoyle.wordpress.com.

I'll be waiting for you....

Smooch!

Trudy 

Tags: ravenous romance | Trudy Doyle

Hits: 664 | Read more...

Imagine my delight this morning when I went to the Ravenous site and saw that Long, Hard & Lethal was Number Four on the Top Ten List. How wonderful! A big Smooch and Thank You to all who have shared in Doug and Gina's story. But to those who have yet to, I'd like to give you a little peek into Chapter Two where Camden Police Detective Lt. Welland and Attorney Bardone meet up for the first time in over two years, after parting very...well, let's just say there was a considerable amount of drama...

She couldn’t move, taking in the sight of him. Like the first time they met almost three years earlier, the calm, cool detective, a witness for the prosecution, and she, the hard-as-nails attorney for the defense. He had a rep as a dogged investigator, and Gina was the Last Hope of Lost Causes. After the trial ended he had met her outside to concede victory. Three days, several calls to room service and a pile of tangled sheets later, she had graciously accepted. And she knew that now, like then, it would be easy to succumb, even with so much rough mileage between them. Spiky hair the color of sweet corn, eyes so icy blue they were almost crystalline, as his large, muscular body filled the doorway, she knew he carried the lineage of some Viking raid on Britain, such cheekbones, such an angular nose, such memories of that sensual mouth falling on hers. When he closed the door it was all she could do to keep standing.

            The gun twisted on her finger, upending. “Looking for this?” she managed to say.

            It took a few moments before he moved, but when he did, he was as swift as a panther. “Give it here,” he said, his voice still slightly gravelly, taking the pistol from her, an electric shock shooting up her arm when their fingers touched. He opened his jacket and slipped it into his holster, those aquamarine eyes never leaving hers.

            Gina tossed her head, sincerely hoping that wasn’t coquettish, as she only wanted to see him better. He was looming over her, taking her in, standing so close she felt the heat from his body coming at her in waves, and with his collar opened and his tie loosened she could see the pulse point at his neck thumping wildly. Like how her own heart nearly beat a hole in her chest.

            She licked her lips. “Lieutenant, I know you’re probably wondering why after all this time I—”

            He grabbed her, his big hands clamping around her arms and before she knew it he had twisted her around, slamming her back against the door.

            “What are you doing here,” he said. “What do you want?”

            He was squeezing the life from her, his hands shaking. “I need your help,” she said.

            His jaw tightened. “And I need you to stay away from me.”

            “But I can’t.” She slumped in his grasp. “Not anymore.”

Was that a groan? She couldn’t tell. Nor did she have time to decipher it. Because within a breath he was kissing her, her head swimming as his tongue parted her lips and drove inside, silencing anything she wanted to say.

             For the next few moments she existed purely on a sensual level, the taste, the scent, the feel of him commanding every receptor of her being, physical or mental. His mouth was hot, insistent, nearly maniacal as his body pressed against her, his heart thumping wildly atop hers. He tasted of coffee and faintly of mint, his skin smelling of soap, his hair of some vague domesticity, which shot a stab of crazed jealously through her, making her squirm beneath his grasp. He growled something indiscernible, and his hand slid to the curve of her ass, pressing, kneading, his mouth leaving hers to trail hot kisses along the arching curve of her neck.

            She groaned, her skin suddenly electric, sparks flying from every pore in her body. “Good God, Doug...good--"      

      No time to finish. Not when those fiery lips had wound their way down her neck to her collarbone, his hand tracing her shoulder and down to the slope of her breast. Again she arched into him, rising on her toes, his cock a steel shaft along her hip. Her hand fell to it, and squeezed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh my - Dougie! Don't leave us now! Alas, I'm afraid he must. But he'll be back later, at least to say hello, in my next installment of the Riverboro saga, due this summer. Until then -

Smooch!

Trudy

Tags:

Hits: 531 | Read more...

I'm from New Jersey.

There. I said it. Not ashamed of it, quite proud of it, a Jersey Girl born and bred. There's many wonderful things about this state, we have mountains and cities and 127 miles of beautiful beaches, a wilderness in the midst of a megalopolis called The Pine Barrens. Our state mammal is the horse, our state fruit is the blueberry, and our (un)offiical state song is "Born to Run." We have the densest population of any state (8 million), the poorest city (Camden), and we battle with Connecticut over who's the richest. As populated as we are, we haven't our own major TV station (even miniscule Delaware has PBS channel 12), and the channels we get are either from New York or Philadelphia - whom we get no respect from. The New York Giants play in the New Jersey Meadowlands, but they still say they're from New York. Our biggest crops are asparagus, cranberries, tomatoes (ah...sublime) and peaches, but the best thing we seem to grow in Jersey are some truly remarkable men. Shall I tell you who? All right, here goes, your Trudy's Garden State Gorgeous...

Michael Douglas, New Brunswick - Home of Johnson & Johnson, Rutgers University and one supremely sexy voice.

Ed Harris, Englewood - Never a tighter John Glenn in that spacesuit.

Ray Liotta, Newark - Who wants to know just how good a fellow he is?

Jack Nicholson, Neptune - A legend. Enough said.

Derek Jeter, Pequannock - Who doesn't love a man in uniform?

Shaquille O'Neal, Newark - Ditto, ditto.

Paul Rudd, Passaic - Those eyes - those eyes!

Bruce Springsteen, Freehold - <sigh> Your Trudy has a special story about him....

John Travolta, Englewood - Who ever looked better in a white suit?

Bruce Willis, Penns Grove - My South Jersey boy never made a sweaty chest look better than when he took off his teeshirt in 'Pulp Fiction.'

Jon Bon Jovi, Sayreville - How many of you had him as your high school crush?

Dennis Rodman, Trenton - I'm sure Madge could tell you a thing or two.

BONUS!! - The Jonas Brothers, Wyckoff - (????) I guess you'll have to ask your daughters about this one.

HALL OF FAME - Frank Sinatra, Hoboken - Ask your mother or your grandmother, as some things never go out of time.

There's more, of course. Hundreds, I'm sure. Which makes it so easy for me to create the fictional. Next one on my schedule will be Congressman Jack Falco in the upcoming The Ladies' Choice, due this summer, first introduced in my second book in the Riverboro series, Long, Hard & Lethal. Do you think that book was hot? Oh, dear readers, your Trudy was just getting started!

Smooch,

Trudy

Tags:

Hits: 593 | Read more...

Part of my inspiration for the short story, “The Virgin Principle” stems from the years I spent as a Slot Cashier at the Playboy Hotel-Casino in Atlantic City. Back when your Trudy was still earning her pearls, in the days when slot machines still spit quarters instead of coupons, I sold and redeemed the mountains of coin that fueled Hef”s hutch on the Jersey Shore. It was a marvelous place to work, and for an empire so steeped in the seeming “sexploitation” of women, refreshingly progressive and equitable. Its CEO was Hugh’s daughter, Christie Hefner, and aside from the great pay, ridiculously-inexpensive health insurance, free employee meals and generous benefits package, we also received lots of swag and a free Playboy magazine each month. But that’s only part of the story. The real perks, at least to a young and decidedly wide-eyed sponge of an emerging writer, lay in the intrinsic nature of the job - a succulent stewpot of sex.

Because of Playboy's saucy reputation, its clientele, at least on the weekends, almost seemed rehearsed. There were the young bucks that came to ogle at and flirt with the Bunnies (futile, mostly, as they were regulated by the Bunny Mothers and schooled in a strict decorum, classy women, all), the chicks who ventured in looking for the men scoping for the Bunnies, and the inevitable sprinkling of celebrities - of sports, music and screens big and small. Add to that a dress code that nearly mandated a day at the spa or the haberdashery, free cocktails and more nooks and crannies than an English muffin, the casino floor elicited such a contagion of pheromonal fog its effect was like Viagra on steroids.

More than once I had stumbled upon couples en flagrante delicto, Saturday late nights being the most notorious. Some slot machines had chairs in front of them, and in one particularly shady corner a couple had positioned themselves rather discreetly at one. With his legs slightly akimbo and she, with her skirt poofed most ingeniously, well...let me put it this way: more than just coins were being slipped into a slot. And just because the employees had dressing rooms well off the Casino floor, that didn”t hinder the customers from finding their way into them for a tryst. Imagine my surprise one evening when I went to visit my locker mid-shift, and found a couple so engaged atop our bathroom sinks a fire hose couldn't have given them pause.

But those were rather extreme examples. The actual effects even now are infinitely more subtle. The true appeal of the Casino lay in its possibility to seduce - with money, with excitement, with sex. All are there constantly simmering, all are interchangeable. Like Vince Vaughn in Swingers, every man in a suit is money, every slot handle pulled, every double-down split, each toss of the dice a potential fortune. Every man leaning over a table is as suave as George Clooney's Danny Ocean, every woman has the killer legs and steel-trap smolder of Ellen Barkin. To walk onto a Casino floor is like the intimate first touch of foreplay - a jolt to the body and portend of more - with possibilities as random as the odds.

Smooch -
Trudy

Tags:

Hits: 770 | Read more...

Tags:

Comments 3 | Hits: 659 | Read more...